


fly up to the surface (and just start again)

by leigh57



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/pseuds/leigh57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just an addition to adrenalin211's incredible <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/321032">And still their heavenly music floats o'er the weary world</a>. And it's nowhere near as good. But it makes a lot more sense if you read hers first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fly up to the surface (and just start again)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adrenalin211](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrenalin211/gifts).



> Title is taken from Coldplay's "Us Against the World." It's an incredible song.

“I tried _really_ hard not to want you here.”

He smiles. “I tried _really_ hard not to want to be here.” Her thumb massages a muscle in his shoulder. There used to be a knot there. “Didn’t work,” he adds.

“For me either,” she whispers. He can feel her eyelashes blink on his chest.

She’s pressed against him everywhere, skin that’s almost luminous, red hair that’s _hers_ , that’s _real_ , that slides over her cheekbone and slips through his fingers.

If he were the type, he’d be embarrassed by how easily he could cry, right now.

But this place is so weird that crying isn’t the only thing he could do _right now_.

Even after _that_ (and oh _gods_ , the pleasure of her body again, under and over him, everywhere), he’s getting hard when she readjusts, her bare thigh firing on his skin.

(Apparently, he’s now a composite of every incarnation of himself that’s ever existed, including the 17-year-old version.)

Still, that’s not what he wants most.

“I heard you.” He clears his throat to unstick the words. “All the time.”

He doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s smiling. “What did I say?”

“All sorts of ridiculous shit,” he retorts, and she rewards him with a smack to the stomach (which he doesn’t care about) and a peal of laughter (which is what he wanted).

That’s when he realizes what it is, what’s causing the sting in his eyes and the ache in his chest.

He’s never heard her speak, never heard her laugh when there wasn’t something lurking behind the sound -- hysteria, melancholy, fear.

Now it’s pure.

“Say something else,” he murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Like . . . anything.”

She’s quiet, thinking. “We could get up.” It ends like a question mark. “There’s this trail I want to show you. It takes a while to get there, but the flowers at the end-” She stops.

He waits.

“Also, I love you.”

He can’t speak.

“Is that what you wanted me to say?”

He touches the soft tips of her fingers and lets himself grin. “One of the things, yeah.”


End file.
